


Obvious

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Comfort Sex, Emotional Hurt, Heavy Angst, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Tony Stark, Kidnapping, M/M, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Self-Sacrifice, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-01-20 21:28:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18533503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: When Peter wakes up, several things become very clear all at once: he’s underground somewhere unpleasant, something is messing with his powers, and his entire body hurts. A lot.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tuesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesday/gifts).



> Your letter was such a joy. When I got my assignment, I initially wanted to write you ALL THE THINGS! I didn’t quite manage that, but I managed to get a few in, and I had such fun. I hope you like it.
> 
>  **Content** : Please heed the CNTW and the tags generally. This has a happy ending, but the road there is rough. Peter is over 18.
> 
>  **Setting** : Take this as a post-IW AU in which you can assume things were resolved without the time jump (and therefore marriage/Morgan) or Tony dying. Also, Tony and Pepper are no longer together for this fic.

When Peter wakes up, several things become very clear all at once: he’s underground somewhere unpleasant, something is messing with his powers, and his entire body hurts. A lot.

He blinks as his eyes adjust to the darkness. He’s tied—no, he realizes, testing it,  _chained_ —to an incredibly uncomfortable metal chair, in the middle of what seems to be some kind of…dungeon? Dungeon is the word that comes to mind. High stone walls; a mossy, muddy smell clinging to the air; water dripping somewhere far off, echoing down what must be cavernous halls. There’s only one door, and two men in black stand by it, carrying very dangerous-looking, possibly enhanced guns.

So. This isn’t good.

He tugs at the chains again, but he’s weak, muscles mushy and trembling, the way they used to feel after he had to run a mile in gym in middle school, before he got his powers. Every movement sends a sharp pain ripping through his side, making his stomach heave; his ribs might be broken. The left side of his face is definitely swollen. Each time he swallows his jaw aches.   

At least his mind is clear. How did he get here? Last thing he remembers is heading back to his dorm after a disappointing party. He’s still in the same clothes, so that’s a clue, but not much of one. He’d been sober on his walk home, toying with the idea of heading out for an hour or two of patrol, and then—nothing. Nada. Nope. He has no idea if he’s even still in Boston. It doesn’t feel like it, somehow.

Well, he needs to know where he is. Seems like there’s an easy source for that.

“Uh, guys?” he says. It comes out scratchy, and he notices he’s very thirsty. “What’s the deal here? Who’d I piss off this time?”

The men glance at each other, but don’t say anything.

“Aw, man,” Peter complains, faking a confidence he doesn’t feel. It’s easier to be casual about his safety when he’s not chained up and shaking, strength sapped. He wonders if whatever they’ve done to him effects his healing powers, too. That would not be ideal. “Are you gonna make this hard? You know twenty questions? Let’s do twenty questions. Are we within the state of Massachusetts?”

One of the man stalks over and slams the butt of his gun into Peter’s face. A burst of agony shoots through his entire system, sending his senses haywire.

“Okay, rude,” he manages to choke out, which earns him another strike across the jaw. There’s a searing pain in his mouth and he tastes metal. He must’ve bit his tongue. Fuck. He spits blood, but doesn’t say anything else. They’ve made their point.

They must be keeping him here for a reason. He’ll find out if he waits.

**\---**

He slips in and out of consciousness over the next few—hours? It feels like hours, though there’s not a lot to go on. He tries wriggling his wrists out of the chains, but it’s useless; whatever’s binding him is thick and tight, without room to maneuver. His ankles are attached to the back of the chair, making his knees bend uncomfortably and keeping his feet off the ground, so there’s not even a chance of launching himself at the next person who comes close. He’s starting to get really hungry, and he needs to pee, which is a thing he’ll have to deal with if this keeps up for much longer.

He’s been playing  _Star Wars_ in his head to distract from how sore every inch of him feels; just as he’s trying to remember exactly what happens after the rebels escape from Hoth, a radio on one of the men’s hips crackles to life. A voice clearly says, “He’s here.”

The men jump into high alert, holding their guns.

“Who’s here? Hey guys, who’s here?” Peter asks, but they don’t reply.

It doesn’t take very long to figure it out: shouts echo through the building, far off at first but rapidly getting closer, followed by the very distinctive sound of Iron Man’s blasters.

 _Mr. Stark_.

Peter can feel himself smile, despite everything. It’s going to be okay. He tracks the screaming and shooting and blasts as they get closer. Just a few halls away, then just outside, then the door’s bursting open and Mr. Stark sweeps in.

“ _There_ you are,” he says in Iron Man’s metallic voice, but Peter can still pick up the relief. “It’s a maze ou—”

He’s cut off by a blinding blast from one of the guards’ guns. The Iron Man suit melts away, nanobots breaking apart as he’s thrown across the room. He slams against the stone wall with a sickening thud and falls, at least twelve feet, crashing into the ground head first. A snap rings through Peter’s ears, followed by a loud scream that blocks everything else out. It takes Peter several seconds to realize it’s the sound of his own voice.

Mr. Stark sprawls limp and lifeless, head at an impossible angle. No.  _No_. This can’t—it  _can’t_ , it just  _can’t_ —

“You idiot!” one of the men is shouting at the other. “You weren’t supposed to hit him so high up! Boss is going to kill you.”

“Fuck,” the other man says. “Is he—?”

The first man reaches Mr. Starks body and kneels by it, shaking him. Nothing. Of course nothing, there’s no way anyone could—

“Yeah,” the man snorts. “You’re fucked.”

As he says it, the words seem to bleed away; the edges of the world blend and smudge, as if someone’s taken a paintbrush to the whole thing. Peter feels a swell of nausea, the room spins.

He passes out.

**\---**

He comes to in the same basement, muscles still trembling, ribs still feeling broken, face still swollen. He scrambles around in panic, but there’s no sign of Mr. Stark’s body on the floor. The two men are back at the door, leaning casually, looking bored.

“What the hell?” he demands. “What—what’d you do?”

“Oh look, sleeping beauty is awake,” the man who didn’t shoot Mr. Stark says. “Hello, princess. Welcome to your captivity.”

“Welcome? I’ve been—” But as he’s saying it, he realizes his tongue doesn’t hurt, and he’s not as hungry as before. He doesn’t need to pee, either. He mutters, “Never mind,” before he provokes them.

“That’s what I thought,” the man replies. When Peter doesn’t say anything else, he appears to lose interest, turning back to his watch.

Okay. This is weird. Maybe…maybe he dreamed the whole thing? Yeah, he decides after a couple seconds of thinking it over. That’s the only thing that makes sense. He must’ve woken up briefly, absorbed enough of the scene for it to work its way into his subconscious, and then dreamed the rest of it.

He feels himself relax. That means Mr. Stark is alive. Who knows if he’s actually coming to rescue him. He might not even know Peter’s captured. But at least he’s alive.

**\---**

If he dreamed it, he got the details eerily spot on, because right around the time his mental replay of  _Star Wars_ gets to the Millennium Falcon flying into an asteroid field (he remembers that, this time), his concentration is broken by the echo of screams, and soon Mr. Stark is swooping into the room. He’s not hit by the gun this time—he dodges the shot, stuns the guards, and is by Peter’s side in seconds. He blasts him free from the chair and hauls him to his feet, faceplate opening.

“Kid, you okay?” he asks. His voice is pitched low, tinged with an emotion Peter hasn’t heard since right after Titan.

“I think so?” Just living through the most surreal déjà vu of his life, but that’s probably not super high on the priority list right now. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

Mr. Stark retracts his suit from around his hand so he can ghost his fingers across Peter’s face, tracing what must be a cut along his cheek. He presses down on a bruise, and Peter can’t help flinching as pain sparks through his head. He misses his powers.

“I’m sorry, Pete.” Mr. Stark’s eyes go dark and dangerous. “This is my fault.”

“Let’s play the blame game  _after_ we get out of here,” Peter suggests, picking up the thud of heavy boots pounding along the halls. “Someone’s coming.”

Mr. Stark nods, momentary softness gone as the suit closes around him. He tries to get Peter to walk, but his legs give way as soon as he takes his first step.

“Okay, we’ll do it by flying.” Metal arms grip Peter’s waist, tight and secure.

They get halfway down the hall before a man dashes around the corner, waving a dangerous-looking gun. Tony takes aim, but before he lets off his first blast they’re hit with a bolt that knocks Peter out cold.

**\---**

He wakes up chained to a chair, in the same room, but he instantly realizes it’s different. His body feels like it’s been through a blender, there’s a looming giant of a man stalking around the space, and—shit—Mr. Stark is chained to another chair a few feet away, slumped over, suit gone.

A second man comes through the door. Smaller, but there’s something chilling about his stretched and wane face. When he speaks, telling the big guy, “It’s time,” it’s like there are too many teeth in his mouth.

The big guy revives Mr. Stark by punching him in the face. Peter barely manages to bite back a yell, heart contracting at the sound Mr. Stark makes, a guttural groan that hangs heavy in the room.

“I’m up, I’m up!” Mr. Stark grumbles, somehow managing to come off more disgruntled than hurt. “Okay, Mike Tyson, what’s the deal?”

It’s the gaunt man who replies, stepping forward with an alarming grin. “You have information our employer wants.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific.” Mr. Stark toys with his chains as he talks, fingers feeling around his cuffs, clearly trying to work out of there’s a way to get them off. Peter knows from experience the answer is no, but then again, Mr. Stark is a lot better at this stuff than he is. Maybe he’ll figure it out. “I have a lot of information a lot of people would want.”

“Project Spector,” the man says, a bit of amusement in his voice. And no wonder—no one is supposed to know that exists.  _Peter_ barely knows it exists, only found out because he saw a piece of paper with the name on it when he dropped by the lab unexpectedly. (“This is what I get for giving you unlimited access,” Mr. Stark had sighed. “Pretend you didn’t see that, and don’t even try to get me to tell you more, because I won’t. Hey, don’t give me that expression. It’s because I like you too much to risk it. And do me a favor and don’t tell Fury any of this.”)

“Not sure what you’re talking about,” Mr. Stark says. His feigned ignorance sounds natural, but apparently it doesn’t convince their captor, who raises his hand with mild amusement.

“Stefan?” he says, twitching a finger in the direction of the big guy.

A giant fist connects with Peter’s cheek, blow reverberating through his skull. Unprepared, he lets out an undignified yelp. The world goes blurry with tears. He blinks quickly, trying to clear his vision.

“What the hell!” Mr. Stark yells, pulling fiercely at his chains. “He didn’t do anything!”

“Does this strike you as a situation where fairness is the primary consideration?” the man asks. He nods at the big guy—Stefan—and another fist rams into Peter’s stomach. He manages not to shout this time, but he can’t hold back a hollow gasp, air ripped out of his lungs by the force of the pain. “Do I need to repeat my question?”

Mr. Stark’s eyes flick from Stefan to Peter to the corners of the room. Peter recognizes the way his face goes tight, jaw working: it’s the expression he gets when he’s trying to make a lot of choices very quickly.

“I’m fine, sir,” Peter tries to say, but it comes out a garbled groan. There’s blood in his mouth again.

He meant to be reassuring, but he totally messed that up. A muscle in Mr. Stark’s cheek twitches. He straightens, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for a fight. “Not sure what you think you’re achieving here, Dracula.”

This time the punch is so hard it leaves the room spinning. A faint buzz rings through Peter’s ears.

“I was told you’re a genius,” the leader says, sounding bored. “Surely you understand the boy keeps getting hurt every time you refuse to answer.”

“Yeah, I picked up on that.” There’s a brutal nonchalance to Mr. Stark’s tone, a mirror of the leader’s boredom. “I’m just telling you, it’s a waste of your time.”  

Peter gets what he’s doing immediately. “Sir,  _no_.” It’s frightening how his own voice cracks and strains; something’s definitely not right. Breathing is like sharp knives.

“Shut up! You’ve caused enough problems.” Mr. Stark’s snarl sounds truly cold, so cold that for a moment Peter wonders if it’s not an act after all, if he really is that mad. “I never should’ve trusted you with—”

He stops short, eyes widening as if he’s made a mistake, just exaggerated enough that Peter can tell the comment was one-hundred percent intentional.

The man seems to buy it, though, cruel smirk widening as he turns to Peter. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

“What? No, I don’t know—”

But he catches sight of Mr. Stark, who throws a lightning-fast wink. Okay. He’s supposed to play along.

He swallows. He needs to make a quick decision. He has absolutely zero desire to let Mr. Stark take the torture if he’s just being stupid and self-sacrificing. Stefan punches  _hard_ , and he’s worried the only thing keeping him upright is some amount of his healing powers still lingering under whatever they’ve done to suppress them. On the other hand, maybe Mr. Stark has an actual plan. Peter wouldn’t put it past him to have some special suit that only activates when he’s reached a certain level of injury or something. It’s the kind of thing he would do.

He’s been thinking about this too long. Okay, okay. It’s  _Mr. Stark_  he’s talking about. He trusts him, more than maybe anyone. Fine.

“I won’t tell you anything,” he says to the pale man, with false bravado. As if he actually has something to tell. He doesn’t even know what the project  _is_.

The man’s eyes snap between them, evaluating. Apparently deciding Peter is the easier target, he tells the monster to hit Mr. Stark instead.

He does.

And does.

And does.

It’s worse than taking the punches himself. A million times worse. Each blow lands with a solid slapping sound that echoes through the chamber as sharply as a gunshot. Mr. Stark’s groans grow wailing and animalistic as the beating continues, relentless.

Peter hears something crack. It must be a rib.

“Stop!” he shouts, and his own voice is wet with tears. He hadn’t realized he’d started crying. He tugs at the chains holding him to the chair, yanking until they cut into his skin. “You’ll kill him.”

“Where can we find the device?” the man drawls, as calmly as if he were asking directions to the nearest Starbucks.

What’s he supposed to do now? Lie? Is that the plan?

“ _Don’t_ tell him anything, Pete.” It’s a command, and Peter doesn’t think it’s just for show. That’s an actual instruction.

“But, sir—”

“That the best you got?” Now Mr. Stark’s addressing his torturer, voice shaking but defiant. “Come on, this is barely a scratch.”

A fist meets Mr. Stark’s nose with a crunch Peter can feel in his own bones. “ _Stop_!” he screams again, but the man ignores him, landing another blow on Mr. Stark’s jaw. Followed by another, and another, Mr. Stark’s face becoming a mess of bruises and red. Blood drips from the corner of his mouth; he pants heavily, breaths bubbling and strained.

“S.H.E.I.L.D.!” Peter yells desperately. Fuck Mr. Stark telling him no, whatever plan he had clearly isn’t working. “It’s at S.H.E.I.L.D. headquarters.”

The gaunt man shakes his head sharply. “We know that’s not true.”

A fist in Mr. Stark’s stomach, his chest. Another snap, a wail. Wheezing.

“The compound!” Peter tries again.

A laugh, sharp and annoyed. “You think we’re idiots.”

The assault doesn’t let up, blow after blow. Peter starts to babble out every location he can think of, panic growing as Mr. Stark’s gasps come weaker and weaker, his head nodding forward. The man doesn’t seem to believe anything Peter has to say; his mouth fills with the salt of his tears and he can’t figure out what he’s supposed to do. He loses track of what he’s saying, dissolves into screaming, begging, but he has nothing to tell them, no way to make them stop—

Peter can see the moment his captor realizes he really doesn’t know anything. He immediately holds up his hand, calling off the attack. Mr. Stark slumps forward, unconscious. As Peter strains to hear, he realizes he can’t catch the sound of his breath. He’s not moving, not even trembling in pain—

That’s when the world goes smudged and blurry again.

**\---**

Peter wakes up with a scream, heart pounding. It’s started over again: he hurts, but not as much as he had, and the original guards are back.

He can’t convince himself it was a dream anymore. He doesn’t say anything to the guards. He waits.

**\---**

This time, Mr. Stark doesn’t stop to ask him how he is. Just lands, blasts him free, and scoops him up, saying confidently, “I’ve got you kid, you’re going to be fine.”

They make it most of the way out of the complex, Mr. Stark deftly dodging guards with guns, muttering reassurances to Peter, who clings to him, head hidden in his neck, shaking, exhausted, shocked to feel him alive, mind screaming that none of this is real, how can any of this be happening?

And then something hits his back.  _This feels more like it_ , part of his mind manages to think before he goes black.

**\---**

He doesn’t wake up back in the chair. That’s a surprise.

Also a surprise: he’s lying down, on a stiff mattress. As his senses turn back on, slowly resolving the scene, he realizes he’s in some sort of bedroom, large but bare, with metal cabinets lining the wall. Mr. Stark is sitting next to him in an uncomfortable-looking chair, head in his hands.

Peter tries to reach for him. His arm won’t follow the instruction. Neither will the other one. That’s concerning. “Sir?” he asks.

Mr. Stark’s head jerks up. His eyes are red, but he’s uninjured, nothing like the pulverized mess Peter remembers as if it were only hours ago. “Peter,” he gasps. “Peter, I’m so sorry.”

Peter has no idea what to say, where to start. He wants to be rational, ask if Mr. Stark remembers what he remembers, but his throat squeezes shut as he tries to find the words. He saw him die. He saw him die twice. Even looking at him makes panic clutch around his chest, the sound of snapping bones echoing through his memory. And where is he? And why can’t he move his arms? He can’t—he can’t even wiggle his fingers.

“What?” is all he manages to choke out before he starts sobbing.

Immediately Mr. Stark is on him, pulling him to sitting, holding his head against his chest, fingers stroking through his hair. “It’s okay,” he whispers somewhere above Peter’s head. “It’s going to be okay.”

He smells like singed skin and sweat, and under that something chemically floral and familiar.  _Laundry detergent_ , Peter’s brain supplies. The mundaneness of that scent, the only thing that makes any sense, is strangely soothing. The warmth of Mr. Stark’s body surrounds him; the tautness of his muscles under the thin cotton of his shirt, the steady thump of his heart. It calms him down.

This is funny, some corner of his mind thinks wildly. If someone had told him a few days ago that he’d be resting his head against Mr. Stark’s chest, he’d have called them crazy, and if they’d insisted, he’d have flipped out in happiness. This was not, however, the kind of thing he would’ve had in mind.

After—seconds? Minutes? He’s so lost in it he has no sense of time—his sobs subside into hiccups, and Mr. Stark arranges him so he can sit against the pillows. A little experimentation tells him he can still move his legs, flex his stomach, twist his head. It’s just the arms then.

Kind of a big  _just_.

“Where are we?” he asks, because it seems like a simple place to start. Something he can deal with.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. safe house,” Mr. Stark says. “Near Sokovia.”

“Whoa.” So, definitely not the state of Massachusetts.

“Yeah.” Mr. Stark makes a gesture like he’s going to touch Peter’s cheek, but then seems to think better of it; his hand lands on his shoulder instead. “A terrorist cell went after you to get to me. This is my fault. I’m sorry.”

 _Yeah, but you died for me. Twice_. He doesn’t say it. It sounds crazy, and Mr. Stark isn’t acting like a person who recently had the world rewound. Maybe it really was a dream, somehow, even though it seemed so fresh and real, and unfolded so similarly to the truth. Maybe it was a mind-bending glimpse into an alternate, worse—devastatingly worse—reality.

Maybe it’s an aftereffect of Titan. Maybe the miracle of being alive has finally caught up with him. He’s spent the last few years waiting for it, constantly looking over his shoulder for the universe to snatch it back, to point and laugh at him for daring to get comfortable, like he could possibly escape death so easily. It certainly feels like it’s pointing and laughing now, mocking him with images he can’t push aside: twisted necks, pulverized bodies—

Mr. Stark’s hand comes to his face, brushing under his eyes. Tears. He’s brushing away tears.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again, and Peter realizes he has tears in his eyes, too. “No one’s supposed to know about you, I don’t know how—we’re going to track them all down, make sure we wipe every mention of you away—”

“It’s okay,” Peter says. “Mr. Stark it’s really okay. It’s—it comes with the territory.” That doesn’t do anything to get rid of the devastated expression hovering over him. “So,” he adds, trying to sound casual. “What’s with my arms?”

He takes it back. Mr. Stark didn’t look devastated before, because  _this_ is what devastated looks like: eyes wide, shoulders slumped.

“You got hit with something,” Mr. Stark explains, face twisting in anger. “Some  _fucking_ overpowered alien  _bullshit_.” He stops, visibly pulling himself together. “We were almost clear. I almost got you out, and then—”

Peter has never seen a shrug look so defeated.

“Is it…” Fuck. He does not want to ask this question. “Is it permanent?”

“Not sure.” Mr. Stark places his hand on Peter’s elbow; he can’t feel it. “They’ve drugged you with something that’s suppressed your powers, but based on my scans that should wear off in the next few hours. Once your healing kicks back in, maybe your body will take care of itself.”

“Okay.” That’s good. Yeah, he just has to wait. His powers have fixed worse than this.

He lets himself unwind, trying to release the tension that’s been coiled through him for what feels like days. It doesn’t work. Now that his mind is settling, he has room to register his senses, and none of it is good. Each movement pinches and stings, as if every inch of him is bruised or cut. His clothing clings to him, sticky with dry blood and sweat, and there’s a damp patch on the inside of his thighs. He sniffs, catching a whiff of urine. Well, fuck. That’s embarrassing. He has the urge to cover his face in his hands, is hit by how strange it is not to be able to.

As if reading his mind, Mr. Stark asks if he wants to get cleaned up. “I can—” He clears his throat, dropping his eyes. “I can help. If you want.”

It’s also embarrassing how relieved Peter feels at the suggestion. He nods. “Please.”

**\---**

He’s fantasized about Mr. Stark undressing him. Fleeting thoughts when they first met; images he tried to push aside, because that was his  _mentor_ , an  _adult_ , it felt forbidden and somehow unfair to this person he’d idolized since childhood. Images which, despite his best efforts, refused to go away, stubbornly jumping into his mind at inconvenient times (yeah,  _inconvenient_ , that’s what he’s calling it, late at night, hands sneaking downward). Images he’s indulged with increasing frequency and boldness in recent years, ever since he turned old enough to pretend Mr. Stark might return his desire. Not that he actually does—he obviously doesn’t think of Peter that way at all, so willing to casually touch him, completely unaware of its effect on him. But in his fantasies? Sure.

Point is, Peter is currently living through a moment he’s thought about a lot, but the real thing is distorted, broken and sad. Though, even in the middle of feeling miserable and the opposite of sexy, there is something nice about the way Mr. Stark carefully maneuvers his arms out of his ruined button-down, hands working with a gentle precision Peter associates with hours spent in the lab.

“Not your usual style,” Mr. Stark observes, tossing the button-down to the side and beginning to pull Peter’s vintage  _Star Wars_ t-shirt over his head.

“I was at a party.” The absurdity of that—the distance of the memory, deciding to go for the layered look MJ referred to as “geek chic,” hoping he would finally meet someone who could take his mind off the person currently undressing him, the person he’s watched die for him, twice ( _twice! what even_ was  _that?_ )—makes him laugh, a barking, hysterical sound.   

Mr. Stark stills. Peter’s not sure if it’s because of his comment, or the laugh, or because the shirt’s finally off and he and can see the extent of the damage, but he sighs and says, again, “I’m so sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. I don’t blame you.” That’s true. This sucks. It sucks unbelievably, but it really is part of the job. He signed up for this.

“You should.” But he doesn’t press the issue, instead turns to unbuttoning Peter’s pants. He pulls them down in a swift motion, holding Peter steady as he steps out of them.

Tony Stark just pulled his pants down. Man. It’s a sign of how much pain he’s in that somehow that didn’t turn him on even a little bit.

Mr. Stark’s eyes sweep over him, frown deepening. Peter glances down and—yeah, okay, no wonder he looks upset. It’s not exactly a pretty sight. About the same as after he fought Mr. Toomes, but he doesn’t voice that out loud. He never told Mr. Stark the details of that night, at first because he was afraid it would freak him out, and then later because it didn’t seem particularly significant in light of everything else. Now doesn’t seem like the time to bring it up.

He’s so distracted by the thought he doesn’t notice Mr. Stark reaching for him, and nearly jumps when his fingers land on his chest, tracing a particularly dark bruise. When his eyes catch Peter’s they’re wet again.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s keep the boxers on and get you cleaned up.”

**\---**

Peter’s surprised to find out S.H.I.E.L.D. safe houses come equipped with deep bathtubs—“It’s for exactly this purpose, kid”—but he’s grateful for it. He tells Mr. Stark to make it as hot as possible. His sore muscles thank him, tensions seeping out as soon as he sinks in.

After a few minutes of just enjoying the hot water slopping up to his chest, he has to admit he’s still sticky under the wetness. He looks around the bathroom, which is as bare as the rest of the safe house, grey and depressing. “Is there any soap?”

Mr. Stark, who’s flopped the toilet seat down and is sitting, staring at the tiles, jolts to his feet. “Yeah, there must be,” he says, going to the bathroom’s single cabinet. He quickly emerges with a bar of plain white soap. “Uh, do you want me to…?”

Okay. So Peter hadn’t exactly thought this through. He can feel his face heating up. He can’t believe he just kind of asked Mr. Stark to  _wash him_. What is that? Blame it on the trauma.

On the other hand, Mr. Stark doesn’t seem completely appalled by the idea, and he  _is_ covered in blood and—ug. Other things. It would be nice to do more than stew in hot water. “Would that be weird?” he asks.

To his relief, Mr. Stark shrugs and sinks to his knees by the side of the tub. “I stopped knowing what counts as weird a long time ago,” he tells him with a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’m not too hung up on it.”

“It’d make me feel better.”

Mr. Stark unzips his sweatshirt, placing it to the side. He has bruises running up his arms, bold and splotchy. If those weapons did that through the Iron Man suit, they really must’ve been brutal. He dips the soap in the water, then brings the bar to Peter’s body, rubbing in slow circles, so light he can barely feel it.

“I’m not gonna break if you actually scrub a little,” Peter tells him. “I’m not  _that_ delicate.”

“Hey, mister.” Mr. Stark waves the bar at his face. “Who’s doing who the weird favor here?”

“Oh thank god, I was afraid you’d lost your sense of humor.”

Mr. Stark’s comment hadn’t really been up to his normal joke standards, and Peter’s voice still sounds weak and strained, but the exchange punctures the tension. Mr. Stark laughs, and then does scrub harder, enough to actually cut through the grime. He moves from Peter’s chest to his stomach, then his legs, not commenting as he skips over his thighs, where his boxers cling. His hands are steady and firm, moving with confidence, dodging the deepest bruises, cleaning the worst cuts. He starts humming something, a rock song Peter can’t place, but that’s vaguely familiar from Uncle Ben’s favorite oldies station.

By the time Mr. Stark gets back to the top of the tub and starts rubbing soap along his shoulders, Peter has sunk into a kind of exhausted bliss. Everything still hurts, the back of his mind still screams in horror at things he can’t forget maybe having seen, but the warmth of the water and the ease of the touch, the quiet comfort of a half-remembered tune, have drained the remaining adrenaline. He can feel his consciousness flickering, and for the first time in days it’s not frightening. He lets his eyes close. He could sleep for a week.

Callused fingers brush across his face, rubbing, maybe getting rid of blood or something. “Go to sleep, kid.” Mr. Stark’s voice is impossibly gentle. “I’ve got you.”

**\---**

Peter wakes up back in the bed, eyes still heavy and mind only half focused. He’s wrapped in a warm robe and his boxers are dry. The lights are dim, but there’s a glow to his right, and when he turns he’s startled to discover Mr. Stark is lying next to him, propped up on a set of pillows, pouring over a tablet, eyebrows pulled together in deep concentration.

“Hi?” Peter says.

“Look who’s up.” This time Mr. Stark’s smile does reach his eyes, like he’s genuinely glad to see Peter talking. He places the tablet to the side. “How’s my favorite walking guilt trip?”

Peter rolls his eyes at the nickname, but takes a moment to evaluate the answer honestly. He feels stronger, and everything hurts a lot less. But when he tries to wiggle his fingers, it gets him nowhere.

“Better?” he says. “But my arms still aren’t working. Should I be worried about that?”

Mr. Stark keeps smiling, but it goes strained. “Not necessarily. The drug should be wearing off around now—”

“Yeah, it definitely is, I can feel that—”

“Right. But damage like you sustained to your arms will take longer to fix.” He taps something at his wrist, waves it in Peter’s direction and then picks the tablet up again. “Yeah, too early to tell,” he says. But when he glances back over, worry is painted clear across his face. “Go back to sleep. Let your body do its thing.”

Peter wants to protest, but then Mr. Stark starts stroking his hair, and it’s too tempting to melt away. It’ll be okay. Tony Stark’s got him.

**\---**

The next time he opens his eyes, he’s not entirely sure he isn’t dreaming. Mr. Stark is stretched out beside him, on his side, face half a foot away. His hand is cupped against Peter’s head, toying with his hair. When Peter turns to meet his eyes, he sees tears streaming down his face.

“Mr. Stark?” he wants to return the touch, wants to do something about those tears. Are they for him? His arms still don’t move.

“Shh,” Mr. Stark says. “Don’t worry Pete. It’s going to be okay. I’ll make sure you’re okay.”

That doesn’t sound very plausible, but Peter’s too exhausted to stay awake long enough to argue.

**\---**

When he comes to, he’s back in that chair, chains cutting into his wrists. His mind screams in protest, and he passes out again.

**\---**

He wakes up when Mr. Stark comes blasting into the room. Two guards—down. He frees Peter from his chair with the same efficiency as the last go-round, but this time he’s brought something: a suit, nanobots hidden in a small chest plate he throws on Peter without explanation. Peter’s never seen this version before; it must be a new prototype. Metal surrounds him in a tight, protective coat as Mr. Stark picks him up, holding him close.

Down the halls again. Upstairs, through more halls—whatever building they’re in must be huge, but Mr. Stark seems to know where he’s going. Peter’s heart catches in his throat, lungs constricting as shots fly by, barely missing him. One skims his leg, but the suit absorbs it; it feels like a hard punch, but nothing worse. He can still move his toes.

They burst through a window several stories up, glass shattering around them, and suddenly they’re in open air, the vast bright expanse of the sky startling and stunning. Peter realizes he hasn’t seen the sun in what feels like days, or maybe forever. Just as he’s letting out a whoop of excitement, a harsh green light hits Mr. Stark’s back. He jerks forward and drops, flight mechanisms stuttering. But then he stabilizes and they’re off, flying away from that place.

Peter lets his mask retract, smiling into the cold air, enjoying the way it whips around him. He basks in the light, and for a moment, he lets himself hope it’s over.

**\---**

In the safe house, he immediately runs to the bathroom. Once he’s done, he takes a moment to stop and look at himself in the mirror above the sink. He looks bad, bruises piling on top of each other across his jaw and down his neck. A scratch under one eye. Matted hair. Beneath it all, his skin is pale. But he can move his arms, so this feels like a miracle.

But a miracle he can’t count on sticking. Because he still has no idea what’s going on. Why does the world keep resetting? He’d thought it had to do with being trapped in that place, maybe, but yesterday—is that the right word? It’s as good as anything else—he’d escaped, and yet, here he is. It’s kind of gotten better each time, now that he thinks about it, so it’s not exactly a bad thing? But he’s not a big fan of the laws of physics going out the door without explanation. If time ever stays put, he’ll have to ask Strange if he has any idea what’s up.

He splashes water on his face, scrubbing away some of the dried blood. He attempts to comb his hair with his fingers, but he keeps getting stuck on knots. He’s not really sure why he’s bothering. There’s nothing he can do to make it look any less like he was recently kidnapped, and it’s not like this is the moment Mr. Stark is suddenly going to see him in a different light.

He remembers the feel of those hands rubbing soap across his bruised body, and suddenly he misses yesterday. It’d been hell, he has no idea what he’d do if he actually lost the ability to use his arms—no more swinging from the rooftops, no more fighting crime, his mind bounces off the idea immediately—but he did like the way Mr. Stark held him, undressed him, lay next to him in bed…

None of that is even real, he reminds himself. Whatever this is, that didn’t happen. Not anymore.

He squeezes the edge of the counter. He’s going to need a few more minutes to calm down.

**\---**

When he finally works up the nerve to face Mr. Stark he finds him sitting slumped on the edge of the bed, head in hands. He looks up, and Peter stops short. His face is ashen, stretched tight in pain.

“Sir?”

Mr. Stark stands and covers the distance between them, strides long and confident, even though he favors his left side. He stops short in front of Peter, reaches out as if he means to touch his hair, but then drops his hand again. “Hey, kid. You look good.”

“You don’t.” He’s taken off his sweatshirt to reveal a black tank, and, this close, Peter can see blood staining the cotton, making dark fabric darker.

“Ouch.” Mr. Stark brings a hand to his heart in mock hurt. “Sorry I didn’t have time to stop by a beauty salon before saving your life.”

Peter relaxes a little. He’s still joking. That seems good.

“That’s not what I meant,” he clarifies. “I meant this.” He reaches out, tugging up Mr. Stark’s shirt to reveal his injury, a large, deep gash cutting across his stomach. He’s already closed it with nanotech, but his skin is angry and red around the wound, spinning out into bruises the rival Peter’s from yesterday.

“I’m—uh, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it, I’ve got it covered.”

It’s only when he looks up and catches Mr. Stark staring at him with confused intensity that Peter realizes he just invaded his space in a big, inappropriate way. Whatever’s happening must've addled him more than he realizes, because randomly undressing his mentor is the kind of impulse he normally keeps in check.

“Sorry,” he whispers, starting to pull his hand away. But Mr. Stark stops him, fingers closing around his wrist. Peter’s skin tingles at the touch; even though his senses are still dulled from whatever they gave him, he can feel those fingers through his body, down to his toes. “Um?”

“Don’t apologize.” Mr. Stark pulls him closer, free hand coming to grasp his shoulder. “I was really worried about you.”

 _So worried you died for me_ , Peter doesn’t say.  _Bathed me_.  _Slept next to me_.

And for all he knows, it’s going to start all over again at any moment.

Yeah, this whole thing has  _definitely_  messed with him, because the next thing he does is kiss Mr. Stark.

To his shock, Mr. Stark kisses back, fingers curling around his neck, holding him firmly. His lips are rough and chapped, he tastes like blood and smells like metal and sweat. His beard scratches Peter’s chin; he’s never factored that into his fantasies, but he likes it. It makes this seem real, solid and defined in a way it’s never been in his head,  _definitely_  real—

Holy shit, this is real.

“Peter?” Mr. Stark sounds worried, and it takes Peter a moment to realize it’s because he’s so shocked by the situation that he’s stopped moving.

He changes that, more confident this time, wrapping his arms around the body that’s featured in so many of his dreams; reveling in the heat of it, the build of the muscles, the feel of the tongue slipping between his teeth, sending shockwaves down his spine. Mr. Stark’s hands comb through his hair, arms strong and firm, enveloping him, and all he wants to do is get lost in that touch, let it wash away the memory of days that didn’t happen.

Mr. Stark stumbles backwards, pulling Peter with him, not breaking the kiss until they hit one of the room’s bare walls. Mr. Stark leans against it, throwing his head back, taking a deep gulp of air, and Peter realizes he sounds pained.

“Sir?” He looks down and realizes his hand at Mr. Stark’s hip is dabbled red.

“It’s fine,” Mr. Stark hisses, which seems clearly untrue. Even though he’s never wanted to do something less, Peter tries to pull away, but Mr. Stark’s fingers dig into his neck. “Peter, please, give me this. This one time.”

You may as well have ripped Peter’s heart out of his body. He hadn’t had time to figure out why Mr. Stark would kiss him back—whether it was the post-fight high, or maybe a self-sacrificing attempt to give Peter what he wants. Whatever the reason, he hadn’t been prepared for this: the need in Mr. Stark’s voice, the way he’s looking at him like he holds the key to…something. Something bigger than Peter can work out.

And all while he’s hurt so badly Peter can feel his blood wet between his fingers. “But—”

“Trust me.” Mr. Stark’s voice cracks. “ _Please_.”

Peter does trust him, and even more than that, he wants him, more than he’s ever wanted anybody, so even though logic says he needs to get him to lie down and take care of himself, he kisses him again instead.

Kisses him and kisses him.

“Thank you,” Mr. Stark whispers into his ear before sucking on it, exploding Peter’s senses. A coil of longing flames through his body, and he pushes his worry to the side. Mr. Stark says to trust him, he’ll trust him.

Besides, he also said  _this one time_. Only one time. He can’t waste one time. And as those hands move under his shirt, skimming the skin above his jeans, sending a wave of pleasure that washes out the pain of bruises and cuts and nightmare realities, he realizes he needs this too. Maybe that’s what Mr. Stark meant. An escape, just for a moment.

When Mr. Stark bites his neck, he stops trying to figure it out. When Mr. Stark’s hand slides into his pants, he stops thinking at all.

He lets himself be guided, Mr. Stark pulling him close with his free hand, pressing Peter’s face into his neck. He closes his eyes, overwhelmed: burning lust, firm grip, the scent of the man he’s always wanted, the tickle of his breath against his hair—they blend together, one becoming the other until he loses all track of anything but pleasure.

He makes a sound that should be embarrassing but somehow isn’t; Mr. Stark groans in return, tightening his grip, and suddenly Peter comes undone, spilling over his hand, world retracting to that one moment.

He feels a kiss on the top of his head, and then Mr. Stark is sliding to the ground, coughing loudly. Fuck.  _Fuck_.

“Sir?” Pleasure disappears into concern. He quickly zips his pants and crouches, catching Mr. Stark’s slumping body, helping him sit straight. There’s blood around the edge of his lips. “Shit. You need a doctor. Why didn’t you say—”

Mr. Stark coughs again, and more blood bubbles out of his mouth. “Little late for that, kid,” he says, voice thick with liquid. He’s wheezing. When did that happen? Peter suddenly hates himself for giving into something as stupid as lust.

“What can I do?” he asks, frantic, ignoring Mr. Stark’s defeatist response. “There’s gotta be a first aid kit somewhere, right? Who can I call? A hospital—”

Mr. Stark shakes his head, making a weak gesture in his direction. “Just…hold my hand. And don’t worry.”

“ _Don’t worry_?” Peter repeats, voice rising. “You’re coughing up blood!”

As if to punctuate the point, Mr. Stark coughs deeper, entire body convulsing. His eyelids sag, as if he’s having a hard time holding them open, and suddenly Peter feels like he can’t breathe. Everything’s happening too fast, and the entire room seems to be closing in on him. “You could die—”

“Definitely dying.” Mr. Stark’s voice has gone incredibly weak. “It’s fine. Been doing a lot of that lately.”

Oh.

_Oh._

Instantly, a lot of things make more sense.

“You remember?” Peter asks, astonished. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Despite barely being open, Mr. Stark’s eyes somehow convey the unmistakable impression of going wide. “No.” He coughs again, and this time there’s so much blood it spills out of his mouth, dribbling down his chin. “No—you’re not supposed to—”

He starts coughing harder, a fit that wracks his body.

“Wait.” Peter grabs his shoulder, trying to hold him steady. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“I—it—this wasn’t—I’m sorry.” Mr. Stark slumps forward, eyes sliding shut, and no matter how hard he shakes him, screaming his name through tears, Peter can’t get him to wake up again.

It’s a relief when his own mind shuts off.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter’s not surprised when he’s back in the chair, and this time he doesn’t pass back out. Instead, he’s forced to sit there, waiting, playing it all over in his head, taking each moment and turning it over like a puzzle piece.

_“Don’t worry about it.”_

It was all real.

_“Give me this.”_

He’d kissed him back.

_“Been doing a lot of that lately.”_

He kept dying and he knew.

_“This one time.”_

He’d wanted him. Needed him.

_“You’re not supposed to—”_

He knew.

 _“Trust me._ Please _.”_

Begged him.

_“I’m sorry.”_

He  _knew_. He knew, and he  _hadn’t said anything_. Here he is, drowning in a nightmare, living the worst day on loop, and all this time Mr. Stark knew what was happening and had let him flail alone.

(And died for him.)

(And kissed him.)

(And begged him.)

( _And died for him_.)

By the time Mr. Stark comes busting through the door, slapping the suit on him and scooping him into his arms with nothing more than, “Hey,” Peter’s not sure if he’s furious or completely in love.

This time, they escape without a single hitch. Peter doesn’t remove his mask once they’re out, though. He doesn’t have it in him to enjoy the freedom of flying right now.

**\---**

As soon as they’re in the safe house Peter runs to the bathroom again, before Mr. Stark can get a word out. A little because he has to go, but mostly because he needs time to figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to say.

Within a minute Mr. Stark is pounding at the door. “Pete? Kid, talk to me.”

“Give me a second,” Peter snaps. He splashes water on his face, but it doesn’t help. He tries again, and then again, scrubbing harder. By the time he stops his face is bright red, and he’s no closer to being ready to deal with any of it. But he can only hide in here for so long before it gets pathetic.

Besides, he has questions he wants answered.

He opens the door. Mr. Stark is hunched on the bed, but he jumps up as soon as Peter steps into the room.

“I didn’t know you were experiencing it too,” he says, and there’s desperation clinging to the words, a wildness around the edges of his movements; he paces, gesturing at nothing. “Kid, if I’d had any idea—”

“Do you know what’s happening?” Peter cuts in, and he’s surprised at how calm he sounds. Almost cold. It’s the opposite of how he actually feels, panic buzzing around his head, manic energy throbbing through his limbs down to his fingers, which twitch with anxiety.  

Mr. Stark looks like he’s been slapped. He opens his mouth like he’s about to start talking, but then cuts himself off. He waves his hands helplessly, saying nothing.

“Seriously?” This time, Peter sounds exactly how he feels: genuinely annoyed. “If you know, just tell me. Because I’ve been freaking out, and if we’re about to go do this all again, I at least want to know why.”

“We’re not,” Mr. Stark says, with enough confidence that it’s also an answer: he knows what’s happening. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure, anyway. Point nine. Ninety-nine point nine. Though—maybe don’t count on me. Apparently I’m actually a moron.” He sighs, a heavy sound. “Even when I’m trying to protect you, I fuck it up.”

“Trying to protect me?” Peter repeats, dazed. “Can you please say something that makes sense?”

“Whoa.” Mr. Stark holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, you’re angry, that’s fair, given the circumstances—”

“ _Mr. Stark_.”

Mr. Stark laughs, but it’s humorless. “Feels like you should start calling me Tony, after yesterday.”

With a frustrated growl Peter closes the distance between them, grabbing Mr. Stark’s shirt, taking perverse pleasure in the way his eyes turn shocked, surprised at his boldness. This close, the memory of kissing him is almost overwhelming, but so is the memory of blood spilling from his mouth. “Stop deflecting and tell me.”

“It was supposed to protect you, not suck you in—”

“ _What_ was?”

Mr. Stark takes a step back, pressing his eyes closed as if he’s gathering himself. Peter lets go of his shirt, trembling.

“After Thanos,” Mr. Stark finally says. “After we fixed it. I wanted to make sure that never happened again. So I worked with Strange. We found a spell. Created it, really. There’s actually a fair amount of science in magic.” He makes a face, like he doesn’t quite believe he’s talking about magic seriously. “It was supposed to let me fix things when I failed.”

“And by ‘failed,’ you mean…?”

A muscle above Mr. Stark’s eye twitches, and he’s quiet when he replies, “Died. On the job. I’d get a do-over. As many as I need.”

The wind goes out of Peter’s anger as he takes that in. What a completely insane thing to do. “That’s crazy.”

Mr. Stark shrugs. “I’ve been accused of being worse.”

“Okay, so that explains the looping.” Peter tries to think it through. His mind feels muddled and slow, too many memories fighting to scramble to the top. “But why do I remember? The guards clearly didn’t, because they acted the same every time, so it’s not like everyone got sucked in…”

“I think I know the answer to that one. We fucked up.”

“Well, yeah. But that doesn’t explain why  _me_ —”

“You didn’t let me finish.” Mr. Stark takes a deep breath. “So. When I said I’d get a do-over if I died on the job, what job did you think a meant?”

Huh. Weird question. “Uh—you know. Superhero stuff. Stopping disasters, saving people.”

Mr. Stark nods. “That would make sense, right? It was the original idea. Turned out to be too ambitious. Something about burning through the space-time continuum. So I had to narrow the scope.”

“To…?”

“You. Saving you.”

All Peter can do is stare, trying to register that. What it means. The enormity of it, the implications. He realizes his mouth is hanging open, and closes it.

“But obviously we did something wrong,” Mr. Stark continues, pushing past the moment before there’s time to dissect it. “I’m so sorry. That must’ve been awful. I’ll get Strange to fix it as soon as we get back, you shouldn’t ever have to go through that—”

“Stop,” Peter demands. There’s already too much, too many thoughts battling out for attention, he can’t think about the future, too. “Why?”

“Why what?”

As if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s asking. “Why me?”

Mr. Stark’s chest rises and falls sharply. “Isn’t that obvious?”

Peter lets out a sound that’s something between a laugh and a sob. Nothing about this is obvious.

“I couldn’t lose you again.” Mr. Stark takes a step forward, hand extending in Peter’s direction, as if he wants to touch him, despite half a room being between them. “I couldn’t.” 

 _Why?_  Peter wants to ask again. He wants an explanation for the memory of that beard rubbing against his chin, of those hands wrapping around him, so vivid he can almost feel it. But his mind won’t let go of the other images; the echoes of death, over and over, scraps of horrors that don’t let up. He tries to sort them into an order, make sense of it. “When you didn’t ask for a doctor yesterday—”

“It was too late by the time we landed. Not with the resources in flying distance. There was no point.”

Peter nods. It’s what he expected to hear, but it scares him how calmly Mr. Stark says it, no flicker of distress for the decision to die, choking on his own blood, without even trying to get help. “And that time when they captured you?” he asks, suddenly realizing. “You were  _trying_ to get them to kill you.”

Mr. Stark does react to that, a slight clench of his jaw, so subtle Peter would’ve missed it if he hadn’t been looking. “Yeah,” he confirms. “Seemed like the best way out of it.”

That makes something in Peter’s brain click, the reason this feels so wrong. “Only because you knew you’d done the spell,” he accuses. Mr. Stark blinks back at him, confused. “You’re  _Tony Stark_. You’ve figured the way out of worse than that. You didn’t have to die, you picked it because it was  _easy_.” As soon as he says it, he knows it’s right. “That’s so fucked up.”

Mr. Stark’s face works overtime, shifting through a series of expressions Peter can’t hope to catalog, before saying, “I picked it because every other option meant you’d be hurt more.”

_Every other option meant you’d be hurt more._

Translation: he’d allowed himself to be  _tortured to death_  so Peter wouldn’t be hurt.

Not killed.

 _Hurt_.

That really is crazy. Insane. Lunatic. It’s too much. The anger that’s been rattling through Peter’s body since he watched Mr. Stark die on the safe house floor, the fear and pain and panic, solidifies into a tight ball and tears to the surface.

“I didn’t ask you to do that!” he shouts, voice filling the room, as if there isn’t enough space to contain everything he’s feeling. “I didn’t want that! I had to watch you  _die_ , do you know how much worse that is than torture?”

“You weren’t supposed to remember!” Mr. Stark yells back, coming closer. “You weren’t supposed to know.”

As if that makes it better. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to, but he  _does_. He remembers, every painful detail. He had to watch, over and over, as Mr. Stark was punched, and shot, and—wait.

 _Wait_.

“The time with my arms,” he says, quieter, slowly, afraid to ask. The way Mr. Stark goes completely still is all the confirmation he needs, but he still forces the words out. “You were fine.”

If his powers weren’t still dampened from the drugs, Peter is sure he’d be able to hear Mr. Stark swallow even from across the room. “I was fine,” he agrees. “ _You_  weren’t.”

“Does the spell reset things when I’m injured?” Peter’s pretty positive he knows the answer to that, too.

Mr. Stark’s face is pale as he shakes his head. “No. I wanted it to, but the magic didn’t work out. The loop is anchored to me.”

“Please tell me that doesn’t mean what I think it means.” It can’t. He can’t have. Because Peter’s not sure how he’s supposed to handle it if he did.

“I wasn’t going to let you stay like that.” Mr. Stark’s eyes go distant for a moment, and then he nods, as if confirming his choice to himself. “Not when I could do something about it.”

Holy shit.

“You didn’t.” Peter can hear the panic in his own voice, feel it swelling through his stomach, gripping at his throat. “Sir, please say you didn’t.”

Mr. Stark shakes his head again. “I’m not going to lie to you, kid.”

Peter’s chest tightens. He’s having a hard time breathing; it feels like the entire world is collapsing around him. He sinks to his knees, desperately sucking in air.

There’s a shuffle, and suddenly a pair of shoes are in his line of sight. A hand falls to his hair, another lands on his back, Mr. Stark’s strained voice tells him to calm down, breathe deeply, just breathe. The touch should be comforting, but instead he feels claustrophobic, hemmed in. He tries to shake it off, and when that doesn’t work, he shoves at Mr. Stark’s legs, forcing him to stumble away.

“Leave me alone,” he pants. His palms are sweaty, entire body too warm.

“Peter—”

He looks up. Mr. Stark is staring down at him with an expression like his heart is broken. Peter can’t find room in his brain to care. He just needs space. He wants to be alone.

“I—” He pulls in more air, trying to force his heart to stop racing. “I just want to go home.”

Mr. Stark nods. “Team’s already on the way. They’ll be here in an hour.” He walks over to one of the many cabinets, searches inside it for a few seconds, then tosses a bottle in Peter’s direction. It hits the ground in front of him, rolling to a stop at his feet. “Sleeping pills. Might help.”

He found those really quickly. Is that because he already knew where they were? Is this how—no. He’s not going to think about that. Peter takes a couple of the pills and swallows them, then lays on the floor, staring at the ceiling. It’s blank and white, empty. He tries to make his mind match.

“You can have the bed.” The voice, concerned, is disembodied, as if Mr. Stark has figured out Peter doesn’t want him to get any closer.

“I’m fine,” he says. He’s too overwhelmed to care that the floor is concrete, rough and uncarpeted. He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to look at anything other than that blankness right now. If he has to see Mr. Stark’s face again, he might shatter. “Please, sir, just leave me alone.”

A resigned sigh. “Okay, I’ll go wait outside.” Mr. Stark’s voice is choked, like he might be holding back tears.

Peter listens as his footsteps go to the door, then fade away down what must be a hall. He stares at the nothing of the ceiling and tries to make himself numb until the pills kick in.

**\---**

He wakes up in his bedroom at home. Home-home. His bruises have faded to faint grey spots, the cut across his face reduced to a thin red line.

May pulls him into a hug as soon as he enters the living room, squeezing tight, exclaiming, “My baby! What’d those fuckers do to you?” She kisses the top of his head, and he can’t stop himself from sobbing against her shoulder. He lets her rock him and whisper comforting nothings into his hair, past the point of wanting to seem like he’s outgrown needing the safety of her arms.

She’s ordered in breakfast from his favorite diner, piles of pancakes and bacon. He tears through it all. He hasn’t eaten for days even in this timeline, and it feels like so much longer than that. He’d forgotten what it’s like to be anything but weak and tired.

As he eats, May tells him “that asshole” explained what happened, but a little prodding makes it clear Mr. Stark has given her the official version: all of the kidnapping, none of the time loops. Peter doesn’t correct her. She’s upset enough as it is. Besides, she’s skeptical of Mr. Stark on the best day, and is clearly super pissed at him right now. He doesn’t need her take on the whole willfully-dying-to-save-him thing, and definitely doesn’t want to hear her thoughts on what it might mean.

Or what he should do about it.

She’s arranged for him to have the week off from school and has taken off work herself—“I told them it’s a family emergency, which it is”—so they spend the day watching movies and eating a rotating cast of takeout options, all his favorites at once, with enough leftovers for days. Peter forces himself to pay attention to plots of the films, tells his brain “no” every time it tries to remind him of what happened: Warm touch, broken ribs, eyes in the dark, wide and concerned. Gentle hands dragging soap across his body, blood, and blood, and blood again. It almost works.

Okay, not really. But it works enough that when he smiles and tells May goodnight, she doesn’t look quite so concerned. That’s something.

When he gets to his room, there’s a drone hovering outside his window. It’s carrying a package: a bottle of sleeping pills with a note.

_Trust me, you’re not going to like whatever dreams your mind cooks up tonight. Call me whenever you want. I’m staying in the city for the foreseeable future — TS_

_P.S. I’m so sorry, I really am. All I wanted was to protect you, but this is what happens when I try to help._

Peter crumples the note up, but he throws it on his desk, not into the trash. And he takes the pills.

**\---**

Ned comes over the next day, with a giant Lego set and over-enthusiastic jokes about his best friend’s kidnapping being a great excuse to skip his boring gov class. Peter appreciates the attempt. And he decides to tell him the truth. He’s the one person who knows about his hopeless (not so hopeless?) crush, anyway.

“Whoa,” Ned says when he finishes the story. “You hooked up with  _Tony Stark_?”

“Not really the point.”

“Isn’t it? It’s part of the point, right? Like, this totally means he’s in love with you.”

There it is, the word Peter hasn’t let his mind look at. They’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, Lego pieces scattered around them. He idly pushes two together, enjoying the click they make. There’s something delightfully simple about the way they fit together. It makes sense, unlike anything else. “Does it. Mean that?”

Ned shrugs. “Probably? Seems like it.”

Peter doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he keeps building, watching the shape come together with unnecessarily intense focus, as if it can block everything else out.

After a minute of working in silence, Ned pokes his shoulder. “How would you feel about that?”

“Huh?” Peter’s lost track of the conversation.

“If he’s in love with you? How would you feel? I mean, that’s what you want, right?”

Peter considers it. It is what he wants. Right? A week ago, it would have seemed completely unattainable, and completely incredible. But now—

It’s not that he doesn’t want it, but every time he tries to think about it, all he sees is the man he might be in love with dying.

 _Choosing_ to die.

“I don’t know, dude,” he admits. “This is a lot.”

Ned looks thoughtful. “You know what you should do? You should talk to him.”

Peter sighs. Obviously that’s the right answer. Except that thinking about seeing Mr. Stark, talking about any of this, makes him want to stretch out on the floor and stare at the ceiling until it all just goes away again.

“I don’t know if I can,” he admits. “I don’t know what I’d say.”

“You could say you don’t know what to say,” Ned suggests. “At least it’d be something.”

That’s actually not a bad idea. It’s probably better than nothing, anyway. Better than spending the next week wondering if it’s safe to go to sleep without pills, trying not to think about what’s happening. Better than _actually_ giving in and staring at nothing when he knows it  _won’t_ go away, no matter how much he wants it to.

“That’s really smart.” He nudges his best friend’s shoulder. “When did you get so smart?”

“College has changed me,” Ned says sanguinely. “I’m wise now.”

Peter laughs and shoves him, but really, maybe he is.

**\---**

He doesn’t warn Mr. Stark he’s coming. Mostly because he wants the option to back out at the last second, but a little for the vindictive thrill of seeing the shock on his face when he spots Peter tapping on his penthouse living-room window, wearing street clothes and his mask.

“You came,” he says, after letting Peter in. He sounds grateful.

Peter pulls off the mask. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I came.”

He’d expected—well, he’s not sure what, exactly, but this quiet awkwardness isn’t it. The last time they’d seen each other had been in the heat of escape, injured and panicked, loud and frenzied, secrets and anger running against each other. By contrast, this calm feels empty.

Mr. Stark, who’s looking unusually casual in jeans and a grey undershirt, clears his throat and gestures at his large, black leather couch. “Take a seat. Can I get you anything? Water? Cereal? Uh…that’s all I have. But I could order something. Anything you want.”

“No thanks, I’m fine.” Peter perches on the edge of the couch, all the way to one end.

“Are you? Fine?” Mr. Stark approaches. For a moment it looks like he’s going to sit right next to him, but then he moves further away, dropping with a heavy thud, leaving room for several people between them. “In general, I mean, not about my pathetic excuse for hosting.”

“Not really,” Peter admits, and he’s hit with the urge to cry again. He’s managed to avoid doing that since the morning he came home, four days ago. Four days of trying very, very hard not to think about exactly the thing he’s here to talk about and, wow, this is going to be harder than Ned made it sound. “I’m kind of freaking out.”

Mr. Stark’s lips press together and his eyes squeeze closed, like maybe he’s trying to repress tears, too. Peter finds that strangely comforting. They’re in this together, sort of. “I realize saying I’m sorry again doesn’t amount to much here, but you have to know I am. Sorrier than I’ve been about anything, ever, and that’s saying something.”

Peter’s not sure where to go from here, so instead of replying, he just observes, taking in the dark spots under Mr. Stark’s sunken eyes, the thin sag of his skin, the stubble disrupting his normally perfectly groomed facial hair. Even from across the couch Peter can smell him, strong musk mixed with traces of alcohol. He looks like he hasn’t slept, and he probably hasn’t showered in a few days, either.

“Kid? Please, say something.”

“I don’t know what to say.” There. Better than nothing, right?

“Do you hate me?” To Peter’s surprise the questions sounds completely genuine; not a bid for reassurance, but like the answer could be yes. Ridiculous. Whatever else he’s feeling,  _hate_ hasn’t crossed his mind.

“Of course not.”

He’s met with an expression of complete gratitude, as if he’s given Mr. Stark a gift he doesn’t deserve. Not for the first time, Peter realizes he’s completely out of his depth, here. There are too many different emotions competing to come out on top.

“I am angry at you,” he adds, even though anger isn’t what’s winning right now. Right now, what he feels is concern, and a desperate desire to reach forward, touch, comfort and be comforted. But under that, somewhere, part of him hasn’t stopped howling. He probably needs to deal with that. “Like, really angry.”

Mr. Stark nods, frowning. “That’s okay. You should be angry. You deserve you be angry. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve already talked to Strange. We’re fixing the spell; this won’t happen again.”

“Get rid of it.” Until the words come out of his mouth, Peter couldn’t have told you that getting rid of the spell was what he wanted. But whatever primal part of his brain made him say it is right, because as soon as he does he feels confident it would help.

“We’re working as fast as we can, you won’t be included by the time—”

“No.” He says it with more force. “I don’t mean take me out, I mean get rid of it. No more spell.”

“Peter—”

“I mean it.” He makes his voice as firm as possible, trying to convey how serious he is. “I don’t want you dying for me.”

“I—” Mr. Stark stops, staring at him. Maybe realizing he’s not planning to back down. “I just want to keep you safe. You wouldn’t know—”

“But I  _would_. I  _do_.” The memory of the relentless brutal thud of fists meeting flesh overwhelms him; he has to fight to keep his mind clear. “If you don’t stop it,  _every time_ you do anything to help me, I’m going to have to wonder how many times you died first.”

“Is that a problem?” Again, it comes out like a real question, and Peter almost bursts into hysterical laughter, or maybe tears. He hadn’t realized how blind Mr. Stark is. For someone so smart, he really doesn’t get it.

“Is that a  _problem_?” he parrots, incredulous and a little sarcastic. “I don’t know, is it? How would you feel if it was the other way around?”

That works better than he expected; Mr. Stark closes his mouth, drawing his eyebrows together like he’s thinking about it. “That’d be awful.”

“Well there you go.”

They sit in silence, contemplating each other. Peter feels like he’s posed a challenge, and now it’s up to Mr. Stark to decide what to do. It’s strange, like he’s somehow taken control of the situation, been allowed to set the terms of engagement. When did that happen?

Finally, Mr. Stark nods, a single sharp movement. “Fine. Fine, the spell goes.”

Relief washes over Peter; he feels himself physically relax, muscles loosening. He melts into the couch, letting his head fall backwards. “Thanks, Mr. Stark. That makes me feel a lot better.”

“I’d really prefer it if you’d start calling me Tony.” It’s said quietly, but with underlying urgency.

Oh right. They’re not done yet.

There’s the rest of it.

He’s so, so tired.         

“And why would that be?” Peter asks, not looking up. Maybe this will be easier if he stares at the ceiling. Or at least it’ll make it less obvious that blood has come rushing to his face, turning it what he’s sure is an embarrassing color.

“Kid, come on. You know why.”

“Oh, you’re supposed to be Tony, but I’m still ‘kid’?”

He’s not sure why he said that. He likes it when Mr. Stark—No. Tony? That’s going to take some getting used to, and now is not the time—calls him kid. It always makes his stomach flip; it’s like something out of a classic movie romance, Han and Leia, or that couple from  _Casablanca_. Maybe he said it because he’s annoyed Mr. Stark is dodging the question. Maybe it’s because he’s still angry.

He hears the soft squeak of leather, and suddenly Mr. Stark is much closer, so close Peter can feel his body heat like it’s physical touch. Could reach out and grab his hand easily, but doesn’t. “Peter, what do you want me to say here?”

With a groan of frustration, Peter sits up. Mr. Stark’s face is suddenly impossibly near; he can make out the red running through the white in his eyes, the shine of tears caught in the corners. That’s because of him. It makes him feel powerful, to be the reason  _Tony Stark_  has tears in his eyes.

“You kissed me back,” he says, because it’s true, and starting with the facts seems easiest. “You did more than kiss me back.”

“Yes,” Mr. Stark agrees, and it sounds like a confession.

“But you thought I wasn’t going to remember.” Peter holds his gaze, daring him to deny what’s completely obvious. “You didn’t want me to remember.”

That muscle in Mr. Stark’s jaw bulges as he gives a stiff nod.

“Why?”

“Why what? Why did I kiss you, or why didn’t I want you to remember?” He licks his lips, a quick movement that sends a distracting tingle down Peter’s spine. “Honestly, the answer to both questions should be pretty obvious.”

There’s that word again: obvious. That’s what he’d said before.  _Isn’t it obvious?_ Isn’t it obvious why he’d kiss Peter? Why he’d hide it? Why he’d die for him, again and again, even when he didn’t need to, just to make his life easier? Peter curls, bringing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He hides his head in his legs. “It’s not obvious to me.”

“Pete—” Mr. Stark’s hand lands on his head and his fingers coil into his hair. Peter feels it through his entire body, can’t repress the shiver that jolts through him. Without the drug dulling his senses, that touch is completely overwhelming.

“I don’t get any of this,” Peter says into his knees. It’s easier, not looking at him. And the contact helps; it’s distracting, but it’s also confirmation that he’s not crazy. That Mr. Stark does want…something. “You want to kiss me, you’re completely insane enough to  _die_  for me. To, what, kill yourself so I could have my arms? But you didn’t want me to know?”

A sigh, another shift, and then their legs are brushing. Mr. Stark wraps an arm around his back, mouth pressing a kiss to his head. If he’d thought the hand on his hair was overwhelming, this is something else entirely; the only thing he can think about is the burn of that touch through his body, confusion and pain lost in a flood of want. Suddenly he’s very glad his knees are up.

“I told you,” Mr. Stark says, so quietly it’s barely more than a rumble in his chest, but Peter doesn’t miss a word. “I can’t lose you again.”

That gets Peter’s attention, lust subsiding, though every place Mr. Stark’s skin meets his still feels like fire. “You thought me knowing would lose me?” That can’t be right. “Am I really that good an actor?”

Mr. Stark chuckles, a gentle sound that makes Peter’s heart skip a beat. “No offense, but not at all. You’re not exactly subtle.”

Peter groans and curls into himself further. Really, he should be past the point of being embarrassed about this, but he’d thought he’d done an okay job keeping his crush under wraps. Apparently not. It’s a little humiliating to have gone around thinking he was being sneaky when he wasn’t. “If you know how I feel, then what’s the problem?”

“Peter, could you look at me?” Reluctantly, he peaks up, and is greeted with the lopsided smile he’s learned to associate with self-deprecation. Mr. Stark’s hand finds his hair again, stroking it. “The problem is that if I offered, you’d say yes. And then I’d fuck it up, because I’ve fucked up every relationship I’ve ever been in. And  _then_ I’d lose you.”

“Oh.” Peter’s mind spins, trying to find a response. It’s hard, when everything is overpowered by touch, and by the memories that touch brings, of losing himself in it, and of the taste of blood, and—fuck. He hates this. “Well, too late. I’m not gonna like, forget.”

Mr. Stark shifts to rubbing circles on his back. “Not even as a favor to me?”

Peter laughs a little. That earns a broad smile that brightens Mr. Stark’s face, as if even that small sign of happiness is the best thing he’s ever seen. “Sorry, Mr.—Tony. But I don’t exactly want to forget. That part, anyway.”

“Yeah.” Mr. Stark sighs, low and resigned. “Yeah, neither do I.”

“Yeah?” Suddenly Peter knows the answer to Ned’s question:  _If he’s in love with you? How would you feel?_ Hopeful. He’d feel hopeful. And scared, and completely overwhelmed, and still kind of angry, but mostly: hopeful. He sits up, leans forward until their lips are so close they’re almost brushing. “So, what now?”

Mr. Stark’s fingers graze along his chin, pulling him forward until that last space is erased. This kiss is closed, gentle, nothing like last time. It’s not enough, Peter wants to get lost in it. He opens his lips, flicks his tongue forward, licks his way into Mr. Stark’s mouth, which welcomes him, warm and soft and tasting like ecstasy. He sinks into it, letting go—

And then his mind explodes with memories: spots of blood, glassy eyes, gargling breaths.

He stops, heart racing.

“Peter?”

He’s shaking. Fuck. He’s shaking a lot.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“Don’t apologize to me.” Mr. Stark leans forward and kisses his forehead, and then his nose, fluttering touches that center him. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“I just—” He almost waves it off and claims everything is okay, but he doesn’t think he’ll be able to get away with that. “I remembered you dying,” he confesses.

“Kissing me reminded you of me dying?” Somehow, Mr. Stark doesn’t sound upset or put off by that. More…understanding.

Peter nods, looking down, focusing on the subtle cracks running through the leather of the couch. It’s been about two seconds, and he’s already managed to fuck this up. Maybe it was a bad idea after all.

“You can back out now,” Mr. Stark tells him. “Or anytime. I won’t hold it against you. Not now, not ever.”

Yep. There it is. He might as well be telling Peter he blew his shot. “Yeah, I mean, if you don’t want—”

“That’s not what I said,” Mr. Stark cuts in. He grabs Peter’s hand, which is still shaking, and brings it to his mouth, pressing his lips to his knuckles. “Not for a second.”

“But I—” He doesn’t finish the sentence, it’s too frustrating. He has the man he’s wanted since forever right here, somehow wanting him back, and he can’t even kiss him. He knows what happened wasn’t his fault, but this feels like it is. Like he’s being silly. He tries to convey all that with a vague, helpless wave of his free hand.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Mr. Stark asks. Peter nods and meets his eyes. “Every time I look at you, I see you disappearing into dust.”

 _Oh._ That should make Peter’s heart hurt; it should be devastating to hear. Instead, he suddenly feels a lot safer.

“How do you deal with that?” he asks quietly.

“By making very poor, ill-advised decisions involving wizards.” Mr. Stark squeezes his hand. “And by reminding myself that I’m looking at you, and that means you’re here. Touching is even better. Get it?”

Peter shakes his head, because he doesn’t.

“Like this.” Mr. Stark lifts the hand he’s still holding, twisting it this way and that, observing it closely. “Peter Parker’s hand. Right here! I can see it. I can  _feel_  it.” He brings his fingers to Peter’s cheek, grazing it. “His face. Really, really soft. Rather nice. Definitely here.” Hand through his hair. “These curls. I love these curls. Could use nicer shampoo, but very much on this Earth.” Thumb across his lip. Acting on instinct, Peter wraps his mouth around it and sucks. “ _F-fuck_ , kid. Okay,  _definitely_  here. Get it?”

Peter lets the thumb go and nods. He runs his hand up Mr. Stark’s bare arm, focusing on the feel of his muscles, tense and strong. Here. Definitely here. Brings his hand to his neck, cupping the back of his head, fingers brushing through short hairs. Definitely there. Presses their lips together, in a chaste kiss. And then a not-so-chaste kiss, warm and wanting.

Mr. Stark isn’t collapsing into a lifeless pile. He’s here, kissing him back, pulling at his hair, which Peter feels through every nerve he has.

Peter breaks away. “You can’t do anything like that again,” he says, sternly. “The spell, I mean. Not the kissing.”

“I promise,” Mr. Stark says, not moving his hand from where it rests along Peter’s neck. He sounds breathless, looks amazed, as if he can’t believe his luck. Peter’s not going to get used to having that expression pointed at him.

“I’m really, really serious,” he emphasizes. “You do that again, and you actually will lose me. It might be the _only_  way you can lose me.”

“You are not thinking nearly creatively enough about the many ways I can mess this up,” Mr. Stark says, and even though it’s a joke, it also sounds like a warning. Peter doesn’t care. He’s pretty sure he’s wrong, at least about most things he could do.

After all, look at what Peter’s already forgiving.

“I’m just saying, you don’t get to kill the person I love.”

The hand at the back of his head tightens. “Love, huh?”

“Well yeah,” Peter says. Before he has time to wonder if he’s somehow gone too far too fast, Mr. Stark breaks into a smile that could light up the room. “I thought that was obvious?”

Mr. Stark laughs. “I guess it is.”

And then he kisses him again, firm and deep, and this time, when panic catches at the back of Peter’s throat, he reminds himself that this kiss is real. It means Mr. Stark is real. This is all real, and it’s not going anywhere.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is very much appreciated and cherished.
> 
> Re-dated because this was an exchange fic, and now authors have been revealed. Sorry if you'd seen it already!


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